This fair morning we died: Corncob, Squashtupple, Fortiflax, And I, Bellwhisper, We four of Loop Forsooth, In meadow country of Glisterberry, Roused to the bugle of Her Mouseship's Twenty-Second Anti-Raptor Infantry, Donned bright centurion suits, Shouldered buckthorn bayonets, And marched to meet our adversary At the battle of Low Fernfrond, Mellow month of mustard seed, Year of white leaf.

You should know that chief Among my thoughts were visions Of you and of our pups. You'll be pleased to learn not one of us cried, Save for young Squashtupple Who clutched his thistle rifle like a toy And tried to cover a sniffle -- But you couldn't blame the boy, For when the skirmish started in earnest And shades of dread Horned Owls Cloaked over us like clouds before the moon, Even formidable Fortiflax, who fought the Cats, Elsewhere, in another year and war, Looked no prouder, no stouter than a ghost.

I hope you find this posthumous post, If such can describe my manner Of writing you now, In aftermath of afternoon, Some small consolation for your grief. Tell all others whom you pass This one unhurried thing: Corncob, Squashtupple, Fortiflax, And I, Bellwhisper, Were mice of tested mettle till last Gash of talon and lash of midnight wing, At the battle of Low Fernfrond, Mellow month of mustard seed, Year of white leaf.

I stand On the pebbled edge of the world, my cardboard spyglass peering toward the horizon at the break in the swells, ignoring the tide of frustration and rage that brought me here. After the crashing door. After the hail of thundering words. After outriding the wind on a too-small bicycle.

The rise and fall of static that buzzes around me in salted eddies half drowns that guilty voice behind my ears whispering, “Leviathan.”

Scraped palms on barnacled rocks, feet scrabbling for grip on their soft mossy surfaces, I am at last on the top of the heap, The conquering hero, looking again At the small circle of ocean within the ocean of oceans.

It heaves and swells, a sickly green, savaging the waves with scales and a mighty roar. The shock of it Knocks the spyglass From my hand. I watch it disappear in the sea Like a drowned bird.

What is it to drown? No Ophelia drenched in flowers, but sinew and bone flailed raw against the rocks, until nothing is left But scales and sea; and something sucking just beneath the surface where you can’t quite see; something so deafening that you can’t quite hear. Until you wonder where it is that you end and the sea begins.

And then the tide goes out. And then the tide comes in. And nothing is any different than it was before, except the dull roar that stays with you on the long road home.

Oh these are all fabulous! I popped over on Monday with the intent to try one but the topic threw me. I know, an excuse. I am finding that I need more time for poetry, more quiet. I will keep coming back, keep trying. Thank you so much for the prompts.

Blogs I Read

Below you will find links to some of the many blogs I enjoy reading. They are broken down into categories and include only the FIVE MOST RECENT POSTS. You will find blogs written by teachers, librarians, homeschoolers, parents, authors, illustrators and many other folks who share a love for children's literature. Enjoy!